Indiana Jones And The Book Of The Dead
by Ravensara
Summary: Indy and a young thief search for a collection of documents that may pertain to Armageddon.
1. Chapter 1

1

Sweat coursed down his spine as he exhaled a rough grunt with every swing of the machete that sang a high-pitched tune as it glided through dense underbrush as if it wasn't even there. He could feel a mild tightness beginning in his upper arms and lower back, but knew he'd loosen up so long as he maintained his momentum. Henry was no longer the lean, lithe fellow who had moved through jungles with the ease of a deadly predator. Age had sapped his endurance, forced him to factor in recovery time after some of his more physical exertions, but left most of his strength and the wisdom to pace himself.

He had consumed a lot of water before beginning his latest endeavor, and it flowed from his glistening, grimy skin in silvery drops, darkening the light cotton fabric of the shirt he wore unbuttoned halfway down his torso, the sleeves rolled and bunched at his elbows. He wore an old pair of plain brown trousers with one belt loop dangling free and some fraying around the cuffs, and on his head he had tied a simple bandanna folded to the width of two fingers to keep sweat from running down into his eyes.

Insects buzzed and a gnat occasionally attempted suicide in one of his eyeballs or a nostril. The work was tedious, but relatively mindless, allowing his thoughts to wander. Before him loomed some woody-stemmed plant, something that could eventually prove to be a tree if he allowed it to stand in his path. The rhythmic swinging slowed as he pondered it. Just a weed, he thought dismissively, and lunged forward to direct a blow like a corsair's scimitar meant to bisect a nemesis. The broad blade bit and stuck, sending a tremor up his arm. Pain bloomed through his right shoulder. He had torn his rotator cuff years before while performing wild maneuvers with his bullwhip, and while he had regained full use of the arm after a couple of months, it didn't take much to aggravate the injury.

The injured weed trembled as the blade was wriggled free. Henry struck it again, shifting his position to reduce further shockwaves. He chopped at it again and again before he seized the top portion with his left hand and forced it to the side with loud cracks and grunts, thinking maybe he could just twist it free of the thick, long, woody fibers that still held it.

As the top succumbed, he was confronted with the innocent, owlish gazes of three children passively watching him. One sat astride a bicycle rigged to pull a small wagon, one was perched on the edge of the laden wagon, and one was on foot.

"Hey, Mister, you wanna buy some magazines?"

For just a brief moment he absurdly thought of powder magazines, but the smallest child in the wagon lifted a copy of a periodical he knew was popular with a number of local families who lived simple lives off their own land, who imagined a quick jaunt to the next town over was a major undertaking.

"No. No, thank you," he told them, wiping sweat from his face with a meaty hand.

The children fidgeted and then the one on foot remembered, "There's someone at your front door."

"There is? Thank you," he said again, setting the machete down and trudging through the overgrown section of the back of the property.

He didn't hear knocking or anyone calling halloo, and as he moved around the side of the house he failed to see a tell-tale vehicle parked anywhere nearby. Perhaps the visitor had departed or the boys had been mistaken. As he stood at the corner looking at the street, he finally caught movement to his right and was surprised to see a bold figure standing in what was left of the long-neglected shrubbery, his face pressed to the edges of his hands which were pressed against the glass of one of the front windows.

Henry thought to approach the stranger stealthily so he could land an unexpected tap upon his shoulder, but stepping upon a dry leaf thwarted his plan. The man turned casually, a beaming smile upon his features, and said, "Good day! Do you happen to know if this place is for rent?"

"It will soon be for sale," the sweaty man answered, tugging free the bandanna so he could use it to mop at his skin.

"Ah, well, I didn't want it forever," the younger man said, just enough of an accent in his tones to make him sound perhaps Scottish.

"Just in town for a little while?" Henry asked him.

"I'm a photographer. Freelance," he said, finally stepping away from the house. "Do you know whom I might speak with? About possibly residing here a little while?"

"Well, that would be me."

"Oh! Really? And here I thought you were perhaps the gardener! Rory McKenna," he said, offering a pale, long-fingered hand.

Henry shook it, noting it was well scarred and calloused. More like the hand of a laborer than a photographer. "Been taking pictures long?"

"Oh, off and on," the man replied evasively. "Been more of a hobby, actually. I'm putting together a portfolio of specific types of architecture."

"Architecture?"

"You know, houses and such." He turned to appraise the one beside him. "This one's rather pleasing. Had it long?"

"It was my father's place," Henry answered. "He passed away about a year ago."

The young man pulled his porkpie hat down over his heart and lowered his gaze. "Sorry to hear that."

Henry studied the other man; his lean figure, broad shoulders, and a scar across his nose. He had an oval face dotted with a few freckles, a somewhat shapeless blob of a nose, wavy rust-colored hair, a full lower lip and sparkling light eyes. He was dressed nattily in a vest that matched the fabric of his hat over a sea foam-green button-down shirt, a narrow rust-orange tie, a thin black belt holding up dark chocolate trousers, and laced boots of a sort he suspected rose high beneath his pant legs to just below his knees. While appearing very put-together, the young man's attire also happened to be a bit shabby as though he didn't own many changes of clothing, or perhaps he bought second-hand. "Rory McKenna. You sound Scottish. Where are you from?"

"It's Irish, actually," he admitted. "I call New York my home. When I'm not out and about taking photos of things, that is."

"Do you travel with your wife?"

Startled, Rory gazed at the slim band of weathered gold that ringed one finger. His knuckles were so enlarged that it looked like the tiny ring would have to be cut if he ever needed to remove it. Large knuckles bespoke possible arthritis, and Henry wondered if the man was more used to hard work or fighting. "Gods, no," he chuckled. "The woman would be bored to tears." He smiled grimly, and then queried, "How much might you charge a fellow by the week, sir?"

"Henry," said Henry simply with a slight nod. "I'm afraid the place is in no shape to be occupied. I had planned to stay here myself while I finished repairs and cleaning, but it's really not fit to remain in."

"I see," the other said, glancing downward. He lifted his cap to his head and patted it in place. "Well, I do appreciate your time then."

"I needed the break."

"By chance," the red-headed man tried, "could I bother you for the use of your water closet?"

"Ah," Henry began, spreading his hands apart, "the plumbing's not exactly in working order. The place has been unoccupied for some time. I had a neighbor checking on it for me, but he just kept the front lawn down and made sure kids didn't break the windows out."

"Thank you, then," said Mr. McKenna understandingly. "I suppose I'll just return to the diner in town."

Before he could walk off, Henry addressed him again. "What made you think this place might be for rent anyway?"

"Oh, nothing," Rory told him, strolling off with his hands in his pockets. "Just fancied the look of it, 'tis all."


	2. Chapter 2

2

He begged off a home-cooked meal at Mrs. Lang's house. Her husband had been a handyman his father had requested the services of on more than one occasion, but Mr. Lang had passed twelve years prior and his spunky little widow was lonely. She protested until he promised to sup with her on the upcoming Sunday, and then he donned clean casual attire and drove into town.

The most likely eatery along the most probable path McKenna had taken was a small red brick corner site across from a little park downtown. Henry had been there before, long ago when it had been a pharmacy and candy shoppe.

The interior had changed considerably, and the place had taken on an old basement smell. The walls were stained and broken floor tiles marked where heavy fixtures had once stood. Ignoring the little bell that announced his arrival, he quickly scanned the faces of the few early-bird diners seated around small, plain tables in mismatched heavy wooden chairs. The enormous wooden counter with its intricately detailed pillars and white marble countertop had been replaced by a stainless-steel glass-front case displaying the desserts du jour. A slender young man with thick dark hair beneath a peaked paper cap gazed at him expectantly, though with no real anticipation.

"Hey, son, is there a table available?"

Instead of offering to seat him, the teenager gestured toward the dining area and Henry deduced he was meant to select a seat for himself. He chose one beside the large front window and sat watching both vehicular and pedestrian traffic.

An older woman in a snug, short-skirted uniform arrived to fill a glass with water from a sweating pitcher and set it before him. "What can I get ya, hon?"

The customer smiled at her and suggested, "Perhaps a menu?"

Repositioning herself, she read loudly from a huge display board mounted above the kitchen window behind the dessert case. "Well, we have salads with your choice of dressings with or without meat depending on what you like, then we have soup and our soup of the day is…oh, it's tomato. You can get that with a salad or a sandwich, or just get a salad and sandwich if you want it. Or just sandwiches, meatloaf, fried chicken-"

"Coffee," Henry interrupted, a tad embarrassed. "Just coffee, please."

The woman's volume dropped as she jotted his request on a notepad she produced from a pocket of her half apron. "Would you care for a slice of pie or cake with that? We might still have a few doughnuts left over from this morning."

He was disappointed, but genuinely hungry. "What kind of pie?"

"Well, there's coconut custard-"

"Sold," he told her. "By chance, do you recall seeing a younger man around here today? Red hair and a porkpie hat with matching vest. He may have only asked for the restroom."

The woman eyed him strangely from behind her thick eyeglasses as she scribbled the specific variety of pie on his ticket. "Don't think so. He supposed to meet you here?"

"No. He was asking about renting a house-"

"Anna!" the waitress snapped, and a woman seated at a nearby table with an elderly couple turned abruptly her way. "You have anybody asking around about house rentals? Red hair?"

"No," the woman replied, turning farther for a better look at Henry. She smiled politely and wiggled her fingers at him. "You lookin' for a place to stay?"

"No," he sighed, aware they had the attention of everyone within the establishment. Looking up at the waitress, he asked, "Could I get my order to go?"


	3. Chapter 3

3

Experience had taught him to trust his instincts. When what he heard didn't match up with what he saw, then odds were there was something hinky going on. There had, of course, been times in his life when his suspicions had been unfounded or his sense of danger exaggerated, but those moments had been few and far between. Worse was when he blew off his paranoia only to learn later that his inattentiveness had allowed some preventable disaster to prevail. Thus, if nothing else, it behooved him to at least do a little checking on things that felt peculiar.

While he was out and about he decided he could purchase a couple of light bulbs and then, no, perhaps it would do him good to stop in the local photography shop. He eyed the latest camera models and special lenses for professionals or trick shots before asking if there had been any sightings of the red-haired McKenna, but no one seemed to know to whom he referred. He almost bypassed the new candy shop before backtracking and going inside to reminisce over pastel-colored shoe buttons dotting broad paper strips, shoelace licorice in red and black coils, the myriad shapes and colors of stained-glass ribbon candies, French burnt peanuts, Boston baked beans, cream-filled caramel slices, sugared jellied fruit slices, and solid colored and striped salt-water taffy in wax paper wrappers. He knew Mrs. Lang was fond of bonbons and so purchased a small sampler sporting assorted fillings. He had it wrapped nicely in pink paper featuring a lacy pattern of red floral silhouettes and tied with silver-colored cord. It had probably been years since anyone had bought bonbons for her.

Weariness from the day's exertions was beginning to saturate him body and mind, so he ate his pie from his fingers as he drove, resolving to rise early and seek a hearty breakfast somewhere. First, of course, he would drive by his father's house before he returned to the room he was renting from Mrs. Owen a few blocks away.

Henry parked more than a block away and walked down a side street so he could take a shortcut through backyards to his father's house. He hated thinking of it that way: the man had left it to him. When he had last lived there neighbors had been sparse and the closest road only hard-packed earth. Now homes were filling in a grid, popping up like cattails on the banks of a stream of hardened bitumen.

He pussyfooted around his own house from the rear, noting odd illumination within. A glance through a window confirmed there was someone inside and his jaw tightened in aggravation. He had left the machete embedded in the side of a sapling he'd cut down and went to fetch it. He would have preferred a sidearm, but his Webley break-top revolver was in his car, and he hoped to surprise the intruder before he absconded with anything.

Henry looked through another window so he could see what the burglar was doing. In the glow of a battery-powered flashlight he made out the distinctive features of Rory McKenna and recalled his oversized knuckles. The machete would be sufficient if the younger man was not carrying a firearm. Assuming McKenna was unfamiliar with the neighborhood, he would likely race out the front door if he felt threatened. Henry discovered it was not locked, so he gave it a gentle push inward. He ducked to the side as the hinges creaked, then waited. There was only silence within. Willing his breathing to slow, he strained his hearing until he detected the soft creaks of the living room floor announcing the arrival of someone unsuccessfully trying to move quietly about. There was another silence followed shortly by a soft exhalation of relief. His pulse quickened when he heard the front door being pushed shut, and then he jumped and spun, landing a kick near the knob that whipped the door open so fast that it indented the wall behind it. He lunged within as Rory turned and staggered backward, holding his right wrist as he fell.

"Bloody hell!" the red-head snarled, abandoning his wrist for his right knee. "What do you think you're doin'?"

"Catching a burglar," Henry told him, stepping around him to close the front door.

"Mary and Joseph! What's the matter with you, man?"

Glancing calmly over himself, Henry replied, "I seem to be in far better shape than you." He brandished the machete. "On your feet, Rory, or whatever your name is."

The younger man released his knee and reached back to push himself up, but winced when he tried to put pressure on his wrist. "If you don't believe me, then you won't believe me, so why should I say any different?"

"Get up."

"Little help?"

"No." Henry latched the door and moved across the room to a wooden chair. He carried it near the culprit and sat facing him. "What are you looking for?"

Sitting up, Rory bent his bruised knee, securing an arm about it. "Something of your father's."

"Then you know of him. And probably me."

"Oh, I know _of_ you, Mr. Indiana Jones," he admitted. "But it looks like you've already sorted through most of this stuff. Did you move it? Sell it? Maybe gave it away?"

"That depends on what _it_ is," answered Jones, feeling like a cat that had cornered a mouse but was not yet ready to eat it.

"He kept journals, did he not?"

Indy barked out a laugh. "He kept innumerable journals. Which one are you looking for?"

"Well," Rory said, looking a little perturbed as he hesitated, "I guess you might say that I'm looking for his dream journal."


	4. Chapter 4

4

Indy burst out laughing so hard and so long that even his bewildered captive finally grinned and began to chuckle. "A _dream_ journal? A journal full of descriptions of his nightly dreams? My father would never have kept anything like that! He'd never waste his time!"

Rory calmed first and waited for the older man to wipe at his watering eyes with one hand. "If it's not here, Dr. Jones, then perhaps you've moved it. This isn't your residence, but I suppose you brought some of your father's notes and journals home to pore over at a later time? To determine if they truly hold any clues or value?"

Indy burst into a fresh round of guffaws. "You're serious! That's even worse!"

"It may not look like a dream journal," the red-haired man seated on the floor continued. "I was told it could also resemble a thesaurus, a list of similar ideas, or mere practice with a pen."

Wiping at his eyes again and ending his merriment with a loud sniffle, Indy said, "You were told? Who are you working for?"

"Have you seen anything like what I'm trying to describe?" Rory pleaded. "Have you any idea what I'm talking about?"

After Henry Sr.'s death, Indy had indeed performed a quick perusal of his personal effects, selling some off, donating a couple of pieces, storing some, and taking only a few items back to his own home. Oddball notes and papers he was not immediately able to discern the purpose of remained boxed in his study, awaiting further scrutiny. "Let's say I know exactly what you're talking about. What of it?"

"Then I'm prepared to make you a handsome offer for them."

Rory's smile seemed pathetic. "How much?"

"Two hundred dollars. Cash."

Indy chuckled again.

"Three hundred."

"Not even worth the effort."

"Five."

"Instead of playing games with me, Mr. McKenna, why don't you just cut to the chase?"

The man on the floor contemplated the situation, then croaked, "I can offer five thousand dollars if you can provide exactly what I'm looking for."

Indy inhaled deeply. "Which is a drop in the bucket compared to what somebody thinks those papers are really worth. What if I eliminate the middle man and choose to deal with whoever's behind this myself?"

McKenna paled and looked absolutely miserable. He allowed his upraised right knee to droop sideways toward the floor. "I have a small son," he admitted softly.

Indy rolled his eyes and sighed. "You have the five thousand on you?"

"I have access to it," he said, brightening with hope.

"And no way to abscond with it yourself?"

The red-head wilted again.

"So whoever you work for must be a pretty tough customer."

Rory shrugged unhappily.

"How long have you worked for him?"

"Ah…now that's a story."

"I'm intrigued," admitted Indy. "I'd like to locate this alleged document or documents myself—not necessarily to sell them or to give them to anybody."

"But you're not sure you'd know what you were looking at even if you had it in your hands."

"Would you?"

McKenna nodded solemnly.

"What's the value of it anyway? I mean, aside from five grand?"

Going for broke, McKenna confessed, "Your father may allegedly have discovered the key to the Apocalypse."


	5. Chapter 5

5

Flying was the fastest way back to Indy's house. Rory had traveled west towing a small camper, but he was quick to dip into the funds he'd been entrusted with to purchase his own ticket for the flight. The problem was that Rory was terrified of flying, and so he remained unconscious for the bulk of the journey, leaving Indy to relax with his thoughts knowing the thief wasn't going to resort to any trickery while they were in the air. The red-head remained groggy when they landed, forcing Indy to try and walk him like a drunkard to the nearest taxi stand. He dumped the guy into the rear of a cab, and then gave directions to his place. Once he was home, he helped the younger fellow onto his Davenport, and then went to make coffee.

McKenna revived slowly, gazing dully about his new surroundings with heavy-lidded, bruised-looking eyes while eating a sandwich and some canned soup along with the coffee he'd been given. When he finished his meal, he stood, stretched, and performed a few mild calisthenics to get his circulation going. "Sorry 'bout that."

"You travel much?"

"It's how I make my livin'," he answered.

"But you're scared to fly."

"So I keep a bottle of sleeping pills on me at all times."

Indy chuckled. "At first I thought you might be some poor man's version of me, but now I just feel sorry for you."

Rory settled into a high-backed chair. Indy had dragged cardboard boxes into the room and set them around his coffee table.

"This is everything_ I_ have," he said, emphasizing the idea that some of his father's effects were elsewhere and probably not easy to get to. "So let's see what we can turn up."

Rory tugged a box closer and began to carefully flip through pages and papers, taking time to review whatever had been written or sketched.

"My father had an interest in Medieval studies. He was also obsessed with legends concerning the Grail of the Last Supper."

"Why would they lift a cup from the dinner setting?" Rory queried.

"Excuse me?"

"Did one of the Apostles ask if he could get his beverage to go?" Indy half-smiled. "Then he either dumped his drink to catch the blood of Christ in the cup-"

"Or he'd been holding onto it, waiting for the chance to toss the empty somewhere."

"Perhaps he considered it a souvenir."

"If you're Irish, do you happen to be Catholic?"

"'tis so," Rory admitted.

"Doesn't that conflict with the Commandment not to steal?"

McKenna leaned back in his seat. "My upbringing left me with more questions than answers, Dr. Jones. I'm a prayerful man, but I have not attended mass in many years."

"Do you seek forgiveness for your sins?" Indy asked.

"I do not," he said, leaning forward to deposit some sheaves of paper on the table. "I prayed to God to grant me abundance and swore I would share with those less fortunate than myself, but I grew up in poverty regardless. I asked Him to help me become a better person that I might better embody His ideals for mankind, but my life has been rife with violence, deceit, corruption, and the only way I've been able to support myself or my family is by making do with what I've been given and taking these jobs where I sometimes…sometimes pay people off to acquire what I'm supposed to and at other times I steal."

"God did not lead His Son to abundance and a better life."

McKenna lowered his head and sighed. "I know, I know. My reward is in heaven. But if God truly loves us and wants us to succeed at good things, then why are so many wicked people blessed with good fortune, and why…why do so many good and, and_ innocent_ people suffer? How can anyone expect them to thrive and help others toward a better world when they can barely take care of themselves? Look at all the children who suffer and perish young worldwide: what has God got against innocent children that He would allow them to die in numbers from lingering, terrible illnesses? To suffer horrific abuse and be led unknowingly along dark paths? It isn't a choice when you don't know any better."

Indy was quiet for a moment. "You find no solace in religion, only torment." He saw Rory's light-colored eyes lift and focus on him. "I had a little sister who died of a lingering, terrible illness."

"There's that," muttered the red-headed man softly, nodding as his gaze dropped again. "I was raised in a very strict household. My father blacked my eyes, split my lips and broke my leg. He believed it was for the best. I was only an innocent small child…."

"Then why cling to religion?"

"Because…because it's familiar. It can make me feel good like nothing else can. When he beat me, when my mother could do naught but complain about me…I would retreat to my room and whisper to the crucifix that hung on the wall over my bed. I thought Jesus would punish them if He knew what I was going through. I begged Him to forgive me, prayed for some kind of a release from them, prayed they would one day see what they were doing and realize it was wrong. And despite it, we still attended church regularly where they apparently thought showing up was enough to earn them each a ticket into heaven, and I begged God to open their eyes and forgive them so we could live like a real family…what I thought was a real family with love, there for each other…."

"You could use psychiatry more than you could use a priest."

Rory smiled slightly. "Were you close to your family growing up?"

"At first, maybe…but over time, after my mother died, my father and I…drifted apart." Indy looked at the papers he held containing the thoughts of his now departed father. "If family is so important, then why do you do this? Why do you travel? Why not find some sort of steady work closer to home?"

"I have a temper," McKenna admitted softly, lifting a notebook to thumb through. "I was never shown compassion. Never experienced patience. I love my child…but his helplessness…bewilders me. And every time I blow my top, I see my old man unfastening his belt."

"Psychiatry," Jones repeated.

"I don't want him to grow up like me."

"God is not a genie."

"He's not…but where is He when I genuinely need Him?"

"Oh, boy," Indy said softly.

"Sorry. Can o'worms with me."

"No." Indy lifted a piece of paper that seemed a little fresher than the rest and gazed at it. In his father's impeccably neat hand he saw a curious list down the left side with entries of one to four or five words listed after them. A few words were circled or underlined and appeared unrelated. If anything, it looked like possible answers jotted down in response to questions from a game. He wasn't aware of his father wasting time with party games, so he flipped the page back and forth a few times before setting it aside. The next sheet followed the same format, but contained different words.

McKenna had noticed his sudden silence. "What have you, then?"

"Oh. I don't know. Notes of some sort."

"Notes about what?"

"Nothing I can tell. Just lists of some sort."

"May I, please?"

Indy handed the first sheet over. As Rory scanned it, his eyes grew wide with excitement. "This is it! I think this is it! Are there more?"

Once he knew what to look for, it was easy for Indy to locate more pages. There were even a few stashed in another box. "So, how do they relate to the Apocalypse?"

"Well, that I don't know. I was told they were the key."

Indy frowned. "This person you work for can decipher it?"

"I don't know. I never met the guy."

"You're paid in cash."

"Always."

"How?"

"I'll receive a call or a missive telling me to go to a particular post office box, maybe a locker somewhere. A few times I've been met by people who handed it to me in thick envelopes."

"Suppose I let you take these. What's your next step?"

"I have a phone number memorized."

"So you call someone. They tell you where to deliver the goods or meet you. You're paid. End of story."

"Pretty much."

"But, what becomes of all the items you collect? Are they part of a private collection? Are they sold on the black market?"

Rory shrugged.

"Then it's likely criminal."

"I've never hurt anyone I didn't have to," the younger fellow blurted defensively. "Never done no harm. If these papers had been at your father's house and I'd found them, you'd likely never even have known they existed."

"Someone knows," Indy told him. "Someone who knew my father, or met him, perhaps while he was doing research on…"

McKenna guessed, "On the Apocalypse?"

"Revelations."


	6. Chapter 6

6

"Your father studied Revelations?"

"Not specifically that I'm aware of," Indy confessed. He held some of the notes in one hand. "These sheets look pretty fresh, the ink is still crisp, so it must have been something he was working on right before his death. He never said anything-"

"You said you weren't very close."

Indy frowned. "This is a lot of work for a passing fascination…and yet I'm certain he would have mentioned it to someone."

"The same someone who told someone who eventually passed it on to my employer?"

They were quiet for a few minutes. McKenna yawned expansively and repositioned himself on his seat so he could stretch. Finally, Indy said, "I want to know how this ties together."

"So I imagined."

"Are you on a time table?"

"Never," McKenna admitted. "Once you know the link to the Book of Revelation, then what? Sell the knowledge to the highest bidder?"

"I'd be more likely to contact someone in Rome to see what they'd make of it all."

"Nest for a rat in a lonely, dark corner," McKenna grunted. "If your father knew what he'd stumbled upon-"

"Revelations either describes an event that's already happened, or one that's yet to come."

"Soon?"

"My guess is it describes an event from the past. I'm sure my father would have been somewhat alarmed, would have sent someone some instruction as to what could be done if the Apocalypse was forthcoming."

Rory suggested, "The person who eventually contacted my employer?"

"To sell the information? You'd think that person would have first attempted to acquire the papers himself." Indy's gaze narrowed. "You?"

"I never met your father." The young man leaned back with his hands apart, palms forward. "If I had, you'd think I'd have known better than to try and tangle with you."

"But you_ had_ heard of me."

"By reputation," he stammered. "Believe me or not, you're a bit famous in some circles…and even infamous in others."

Ignoring him, Indy pondered their next step. "Well, I suppose we should grab a copy of the Bible and see if these sheets are in order."

"You have a copy?" Rory asked.

"Somewhere," he admitted.


	7. Chapter 7

7

It took some time to locate it, and once they had it they worked in conjunction to try and put the loose pages in order. Once they had determined that they had found all of his notes, they spent some time trying to figure out what the odd configuration of the words signified.

While Rory had enjoyed a deep and restful nap, Indy was fighting exhaustion. Soon even coffee was failing to keep him alert. "I need to make a phone call," he told the other man, and when he returned to the mess of papers and his new acquaintance, he copied the stretches and movements he had seen the other perform earlier.

"You look terrible."

"Have you known me long enough to really make that assessment?"

"I just meant you look tired," Rory told him.

Indy looked at his mantel clock. "If I can just hold out for another half hour or so, someone will be here to help you look for clues."

"I could try and figure it out myself if you'd like to catch a little-oh. Oh, that's right. I did try to steal from you."

Jones nodded. "Sorry, but you made a really lousy first impression."

"Understood."

They sought patterns in the words that hadn't been copied directly from the Bible. "It just looks like word association," Indy muttered. "Freeform thoughts."

"That's it!" McKenna blurted, snapping his fingers. "Freeform thoughts! Like a dream!"

"But Revelations was thought to be a vision-"

"Or a dream! Maybe a series of them! Remember when I told you I was looking for your father's dream journal? That's how it was described to me by my employer."

Not thinking clearly, bone tired and brain weary, Indy said, "Dad dreamed of the Book of Revelation?"

"No! It should be deciphered like a dream!"

Jones chuckled and shook his head. "That's crazy! You mean like dreaming of salt is bad luck and left is right and numbers you dream of are always backward to how they should be in real life?"

Rory gazed at the older man in bewilderment. "Is that how that works?"

"It's all nonsense," Indiana grunted, moving papers from the Davenport and removing his shoes so he could stretch out. "One Gypsy says the color blue is healing, and then a swami in India tells you it means you will drown before the next full moon."

"But dreaming _has_ to be the key. Who's that guy who knew what everything in dreams meant? Sigmund Freud?"

"He never compiled a concise lexicon," Indy told him. "He even said, 'Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.' Besides, my father didn't place any stock in dreams. Nothing he ever dreamed concerning his pet obsession, the Holy Grail, ever came true."

"It could be that the Grail he pursued was merely symbolic for what he truly desired, even if he couldn't admit what it was to himself."

Indy hadn't thought Rory McKenna to be any more intelligent than average until that moment. "Psychology major?"

"Ninth grade education."

"You seem fairly sharp for a drop-out."

"No one said I was stupid," Rory informed him with a sparkle in his eyes.

"I've asked a friend to come by to help see if you can make sense of any of this. He's a doctor of theology."

"A Bible expert."

"Unless you have a better suggestion?"

"At this late hour?"

Indy shrugged. "Try anything and I'll be forced to get rough with you."

"No problem," Rory said, rubbing at his bruised knee.

Perhaps ten minutes later there was a knock at the door and Indy rose with a groan. He opened the door to find that a fine, misting rain had silvered the night, and an angelic-looking strawberry blonde stood on the doorstep smiling expectantly. "Dr. Jones?" she asked, her voice soft and almost whispery. She extended a slender hand. "Ellie Welsh. Professor Welsh's daughter."

He gazed blankly at her for a moment, and then invited her in. She untied a floral print scarf from her head, and then doffed her long coat, handing it to him as she took a good, long look around the entrance parlor. "Adequate," she decided, then moved away from him toward the most brightly lit part of the house.

Rory caught sight of her and stopped breathing for a moment. "Ellie Welsh," she announced. "Theology major with a minor in Judeo-Christian studies."

"Rory McKenna," he said, rising to his feet. "Common thief."

The young woman cocked her head and lifted an eyebrow as she smirked. "Does that mean you're an honest man or a dishonest one?"

"Whatever the situation calls for," he told her.

"Will you take coffee?" Indy asked from behind her.

"I have no taste for it, I'm afraid. But if you happen to have a nice chai?"

"Sri Lankan?" he asked.

"With molasses and cream if you have it, please."

"_Molasses?"_ Jones mouthed silently, making an odd face as he moved toward the kitchen. "Your father sent you in his stead?"

"Indeed. I'm afraid his brother is not faring well and he was preparing to go out anyway."

"I'm sorry to hear that. He didn't mention it-"

"It was my idea to assist you," she said, settling on an ottoman she drew up to the messy table. "Now, what have we here?"

Rory explained as much as he could to the young woman while she collected up the papers and consulted Indy's Bible. "Definitely the Book of Revelation," she decided, her voice so soft it was barely audible.

Indy returned shortly with the fragrant, black tea, a small jar of molasses, a bottle of cream, and a spoon on a small tray. He perched on the center of the Davenport to watch her, and McKenna cocked an eyebrow at him.


	8. Chapter 8

8

Two hours later Ellie had taken to pacing, gesturing with her hands as she spoke aloud to herself, discussing the situation while the bemused men watched her. She had paid neither of them much attention, diving right into the mystery as soon as she was able to comprehend the basics of what they were looking for. Indy had forgone a catnap, informing Rory that he seemed to have gotten a second wind.

"A second wind that smells like Guerlain Fleur De Feu?"

The archaeologist shot him the evil eye. He was likely twice Ellie's age, and would admit only under torture that yes, he found her fascinating to watch.

"I'm sorry," she told them yet again, facing them so they could see she was no longer speaking to herself. "It just looks like a list of freeform thoughts. Like a psychiatry test. If I say apple, what's the first word that comes into your mind?"

"Cheeks?" answered Rory.

"The question was merely demonstrative of the sort of test I was referring to," she told him with a smile.

"Then perhaps I do need a psychiatrist more than I do a priest," he muttered, looking down at the floor.

"A priest?" Miss Welsh queried.

"He thinks these lists are somehow related to dreams," Indy clarified.

"I was told to locate Henry Jones, Sr.'s dream journal."

"_Doctor,"_ Indy reminded him sternly.

Ellie asked, "Then how do you know these papers are what you were seeking?"

"I was told it would look like a list of words with similar words listed near each entry."

"This is all so vague," the young woman lamented. "And for whom do you work, Mr. McKenna?"

"Heh," he said uneasily. "I've never met him."

Ellie Welsh looked confused.

"If we had someone who studies dreams look at them," Indy began, "maybe they could help us find some clue as to what my father was thinking when he wrote this."

"I have a cousin who works…in a facility of sorts…that has something to do with dreams…."

"Pretty vague," Rory teased. "The papers are yours, _Doctor_ Jones. Do you want to keep trying to see what they reveal?"

Indy asked, "What happens if you return empty-handed?"

"Ah, well, in some cases they find somebody else to do the job."

"Better the devil I know," Jones muttered. "Ellie, would your cousin be willing to take a look at this stuff?"

"The thing is," she said thoughtfully, pushing her lower lip upward with a knuckle so she could seize a bit of it between her teeth, "I'm not too sure he'd be able to make sense of this…so much as maybe someone he works with could."

"Could you contact him?"

She looked at her watch. "I can certainly try. Where is your telephone?"

Rory glanced toward the mantel. "Is that right? It's nearly four in the morning?"

"I hope he hasn't left work early," the girl said as she trailed Dr. Jones.


	9. Chapter 9

9

They piled into Miss Welsh's car which also happened to smell of Guerlain Fleur De Feu. Her cousin, Erich, worked in Monmouth at a remote facility located some distance from the gate they pulled up to. The first guard they encountered wore a military uniform and requested Ellie's identification. Then he took a photo of her vehicle with the license plate visible. She had to sign in before he waved her through.

"Military facility?" queried Dr. Jones.

"I think it's funded by the military. My cousin is not in the military, though."

Indy tensed a little. Rory napped in the back seat.

At the next gate all three had to show ID and sign in. They were brought into the guard house and photographed separately. Ellie told them who she was there to see and was asked to wait in her Ford Super Deluxe Tudor sedan. After a few moments the gate was opened and they were waved through.

The narrowing dirt road turned into blacktop and actual lights on poles guided them toward a low, plain squat cinderblock structure with a few civilian vehicles parked around it. They exited into cool late-night air and the silence seemed to amplify the sounds of their feet on the damp tarmac. Two uniformed men met them at the entrance. One allowed them into the building while the other went to fetch Miss Welsh's cousin.

Indy had noted sidearms on the soldiers, but nothing more threatening. Despite the remote location and numerous security checks, it appeared to be a low priority facility. The ceiling was low, the unadorned walls painted a bland shade of desert beige, the tile floors a plain grey. The site had no windows and the lighting seemed barely sufficient. "I'm going to guess you have no idea what your cousin specifically does here?" Indy muttered.

Ellie smiled grimly and gave a slight shake of her head.

They were beginning to think they'd been forgotten when they finally heard faint footsteps heading their way, and then a short, thick-bodied man who was prematurely balding approached wearing shoes with thick rubber sound-dampening soles. His eyes flicked from stranger to stranger before he took Ellie's hands and asked who her companions were.

"This is Professor Henry Jones, and…and…I'm sorry. I've quite forgotten your name."

Rory looked crestfallen. Indy smirked. "Rory McKenna," he supplied quietly.

"Yes," she said. "We have some documents we'd like you to review."

"Documents? What are they?"

She accepted them from Indy and handed them to her cousin. "Does this look like anything to you?" Indy moved as though to speak, but an upraised hand from the soft-spoken young woman silenced him.

Erich removed a small pair of eyeglasses from a pocket of his stiff white lab jacket and positioned them on his face. "Freeform association…it looks like someone was trying to interpret a very long and crazy dream."

Rory flashed a smile at Indy.

"Could someone use the same means to interpret other things? Like old writings?" asked Ellie.

"Of course," Erich told her. "The problem, of course, would be that any interpretation would be unique to the interpreter."

"How so?" asked Indy.

Erich regarded the older man over his spectacles as though he'd just noticed his presence. "Well, let's say I used a Freudian method to break down the symbolism of Dante's_ Inferno_. I would list every key component, getting as meticulous as I wished, then beside them list a few things each item made me think of. I would extrapolate what, to me, would seem the most logical interpretation, highlighting those words that held special meaning for me."

Rory looked baffled. "Then…what you drew from it would not necessarily make sense to anyone else?"

Erich considered for a moment. "In ancient Celtic mythology, snakes represented wisdom and feminine energy. You might take the symbol of a snake and write beside it things like moon cycles, wisdom, secrecy, but you," he said, gesturing to Indy, "might have a fear of snakes and therefore interpret the symbol as deception, evil, or merely something abhorrent."

"Snakes," said Indy.

"I'd like to show these to Dr. Moore if I may," Erich said to his cousin. "She's far more knowledgeable of psychiatry and the Freudian method than I."

"Those're mine," Professor Jones interjected. "Where are you going with them?"

"Dr. Moore is here right now. May I?" Erich asked uncomfortably.

"They're my father's. They were. He passed away. I just don't want anything to happen to them."

Ellie asked, "Could he go with you?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Could Dr. Moore meet us here?"

"You have my word I'll return every one of these in the exact same condition," he assured Indy. "She may just glance at them and dismiss them as entirely unimportant."

"They're important to me," Indy said, and then grumbled, "Make sure I get every last page back."

"Thank you, Professor Jones," said Ellie's cousin. "If she has questions, you will be available?"

"I'm not going anywhere without my father's papers," he replied gruffly.


	10. Chapter 10

10

Indiana Jones awakened in a chair and for a few unsettling moments had absolutely no idea where he was. He was stiff and uncomfortable in a plain, boxlike room perhaps twenty feet by fifteen with a steel door to his left and the opening to a corridor on his right. His first thought was that he was being held somewhere against his will. Then the steel door opened and a man in Army drab backed through it carrying a short stack of large, flat boxes of pink and white, followed by another soldier similarly dressed carrying some sort of a large, cylindrical container by its handle, a column of wax-coated thick paper cups arching down from beneath one arm.

"Good morning," the second soldier said amiably. "We have coffee and doughnuts." They disappeared into the corridor and the archaeologist rose with a grunt, attempted to stretch and twist a little, then hobbled painfully after them into a small, brightly lit room dominated by a single long table surrounded by padded chairs on casters.

Rory appeared a moment later, peering suspiciously around the corner until he recognized a free meal, at which point he cheerfully joined Dr. Jones.

"Where were you?"

"Restroom," the red-headed man said through a mouthful of doughnut.

"Where is Miss Welsh?"

Rory swallowed. "Her cousin came and got her a little while ago."

They were quiet until the soldiers departed. Indy asked, "Did you see anything?"

McKenna smiled crookedly. "What makes you think I tried to snoop?" He chuckled at the look he received. "Sorry. Everything's tightly sewn up."

"Signs or plaques on doors or anything?"

"Restroom."

They ate in silence for a little while.

"I won't be selling the papers," Indy finally told him.

"I didn't think so," Rory sighed.

A stranger strode into their midst from the corridor. "Good morning, lads," he said, looking at neither as he chose from the assortment of doughnuts and procured a cup for coffee.

"'morning," they replied in unison.

"I don't think I've seen you here before."

Indy leaned forward to offer a hand. "Dr. Henry Walton Jones, Jr."

"What field are you in, Dr. Jones?" the stranger asked while shaking his hand.

"Archaeology."

"Oh! Well that's just dandy! And you, sir? May I ask your name?"

"Rory McKenna, sir. Just plain Rory McKenna."

"Just plain, eh? Well, that's just fine, too. What brings you to my facility, then?"

The man wore plain clothes and seemed far too relaxed to be a military type. "This is your project?" Indy queried.

"Oh, yes, yes. Did one of my staff summon you, Dr. Jones?"

"Ah, no, uh-"

"Neville. Walt Neville. Pleased to meet you."

"Doctor?"

"No, son," he replied, though he was closer to Rory's age than Indy's. "I'm just an old pilot with a few nifty ideas."

"Oh, well…are we to understand you do something with dream research here?"

"You're not here to sell me something, are you?"

"Not at all, Mr. Neville. I came across some old documents I needed someone knowledgeable of…of dream interpretation to look at, and it turns out one of your employees is related to an acquaintance of mine."

Neville bit into a doughnut, decided it was not to his liking, set it aside on a napkin, and chose another. "What sort of old documents?"

"Some…odd notes my father penned before he passed away."

"Your father was also an archaeologist?"

"No. His focus was Medieval studies."

"Medieval studies…and dream research."

Rory quietly nibbled his doughnut.

"Which of my staff is reviewing the papers?"

"Oh, I think it was-"

"Dr. Moore," supplied McKenna.

"Oh. Excellent."

Erich reappeared at that moment. "They're here," he said to someone following him, and shortly thereafter a fetching older woman with close-cropped hair and skin the color of maple fudge entered the room.

"Dr. Moore," Neville acknowledged, nodding his approval.

"Good morning, Walt. Dr. Jones?" she said, gazing directly at Indy.

He sat up straight and grabbed a paper napkin to wipe at his fingers with. "Dr. Moore," he said, rising to his feet to greet her.

Feeling uncomfortable, McKenna rose also.

"For some reason, your father took it upon himself to break down the Book of Revelation into symbols he then used like a code."

"_Did_ he?" Neville blurted, apparently astounded. He glanced between Moore and Jones a few times before settling on the woman in his employ. "The entire thing?"

She nodded hesitantly, looking bewildered.

"_The Christian Book of the Dead,"_ the man whispered, his focus distant, a smile beginning to turn up the corners of his mouth. "How marvelous!"

"Excuse me," Indy said, shaking his head. "The Christian…book of the dead?"

"Well you know," the man continued, emphasizing his speech with his hands, "the Egyptian Book of the Dead and the Tibetan Book of the Dead."

"I…know of them," Jones admitted.

McKenna said, "Well, I don't. What are you talking about?"

Walt Neville told him, "Archaeologists are still finding books of the dead. There never was just one. Apparently they wrote them when a pharaoh died to help prepare him for his journey to the afterlife. Each of them are similar of course, but each was written by different priests and who knows if there was ever any actual specific mythology they were supposed to try and remain somewhat true to."

Dr. Moore said, "I don't understand."

"When I was in France, I heard that the Christian Book of the Dead was one of the artifacts Hitler badly wanted, but could never find. It was supposed to be a book much like the others, describing the sort of things one could expect upon death and how one would make their way to heaven, hell, or perhaps even purgatory."

"But this is the Book of Revelation," Rory insisted, trying to squeeze into the circle. "From the Bible. It's about the Apocalypse."

"Actually," the slender woman interrupted, her large eyes dark and kind, "There is still speculation as to what is actually being described in Revelation. Some scholars have insisted it was a series of visions, and others claim they were dreams…." Her eyes widened. She looked at her employer. "Are you saying that if you transcribe the Book of Revelation as you would a dream, then it would give you clues as to what will happen on your journey to the afterlife?"

"It's been done before," Neville told them with a warm smile that finally lingered on Indy. "At least twice during the Middle Ages. But the copies were considered nonsensical. The authors thought to have been insane."

Moore spoke up, "But the interpretations would have only made sense to the translator him or herself."

"Which is why it was considered more myth than reality."

"My father rewrote the Book of Revelation in an attempt to replicate this so-called Christian Book of the Dead?"

Neville smiled again. "Your father's copy is as unique as each one found in a pharaoh's tomb. Unlike those, however, it would make the most sense to him only."

Indy shook his head. "But…but what did it tell him?"

The pilot looked at the woman with the faint Jamaican accent. She said, "He may have discovered solace in his interpretation. It may have comforted him, foretelling his fate in the afterlife."

"Foretelling? Fortune-telling is more like it!" Jones groused. "I can't believe…he would waste his time on such a thing."

McKenna asked Moore, "So it's useless to anyone else?"

"The interpretation would have been for him alone," she confirmed.

Neville looked perplexed over Henry's reaction. "You don't place stock in dreams."

"Do you? Is this what you people do here? You try to dream of enemy encampments or blueprints for new weapons? Are there so-called psychics here like they supposedly have over in Russia? Remote-viewing highly classified secrets? Trying to figure out how spoon-bending can be used against deadly threats?"

"Every mammal other than the spiny echidna of Australia dreams," Walt told him, stepping aside and gesturing for the two newcomers to help themselves to the pastries and hot beverage. "Like the rest of our organs, our brain does not shut off, but does undergo a type of hibernation stage when we're sleeping. It reviews the day's events and merges certain ideas and images with those things that have been on our minds the most, attempting to fit pieces together like a jigsaw puzzle, seeking patterns that may encourage us toward the most beneficial outcomes to our problems. The dream is expressed in metaphor, which as I'm sure you know, is a sign of intelligence. The more you attempt to pay attention to your dreams, the easier it becomes to recall them. Once you've learned how to decipher the metaphoric language of dreams, they suddenly become a useful guidance tool."

Henry sighed. "I know you're not actually going to explain to me what you do here."

"I'm afraid it holds no relevance to your father's work."

"You wouldn't just tell us anyway?" McKenna asked.

Neville blinked at him. "It's still in the developmental stages."

"May I have my father's papers back?" Indy asked.

"Of course," Dr. Moore told him. "I'll get them for you." She left with Erich right behind her.

"Why would Hitler care about what he thought was some kind of Book of the Dead?"

Walt drank deeply from his cup, then wiped at his lips with a napkin. "Well, Dr. Jones, it's hard to tell. We know he liked to work what were thought of as symbols of good fortune into his uniform insignias and flag designs, so it's likely he thought he might find some way to harness some power or force he thought might be connected to such a tome."

"You know this," McKenna accused, "because you're doing something similar here yourself."

"We're doing nothing more sinister than attempting to harness the power of dreams."

"Dreams or nightmares?" Indy challenged.

"Whatever it takes," Walt replied. "Was your father a religious man?"

Indy answered, "As it suited him, but perhaps more so after we…as he was growing older."

"Would he have questioned his…destiny?"

"Do you mean, was he uncertain as to whether he would end up in heaven or hell? Perhaps." Walt began to speak again, but Indy's face went blank, his mouth popping open as something clicked into place in his mind. "Yes, yes, I'm fine," he replied to Neville's questions about his sudden shift. "I'm okay. Really."

"More coffee?"

"I'm good," he responded, something like strange relief washing over his features.

Erich returned with Ellie and a nice envelope with Dr. Jones Sr.'s papers inside. "I'm sorry if we disappointed you," he said.

"No, no. Everything's fine. I think this turned out well. Uh, could you tell me how to use this Freudian method to interpret things?"

Erich looked at Henry strangely, and then nodded. "It's very easy. When you have a dream, just list the main aspects of it as simply as you can. Beside each entry write down three or so things it makes you think of. Read the entries instead of the dream description and you should find it makes more sense that way. If it's easier, you can circle or underline the words that fit together for the most comprehensive interpretation."

"That's fascinating," he said, reaching to shake the man's hand, and then turning to shake that of Neville. "Maybe it'll come in handy for me someday."

"Oh, are we finished?" Ellie queried.

"I think so," Jones answered. "I don't know what you're making here, Walt, but I hope it's for the better good."

"We hope so to, Dr. Jones," he replied warmly. And then, as they were leaving the room, he told him, "Pleasant dreams."

"That place really gave me the willies," Rory mentioned once they were outside and climbing into Ellie's car.

"It was strange," Indy conceded thoughtfully, clutching the envelope to his chest.

"Oh. I think it's fascinating!" Ellie gushed, turning in her seat to make certain the way was clear before backing up. "The hypnosis and the suspension of disbelief, making super-soldiers out of unconscious subjects-"

"_What?"_ McKenna blurted.

"Oh, _no_," Indy grunted.

"They didn't tell you any of that? About the people who can walk through walls and fly and such?"

They were all quiet for a moment, riding through sunshine filtered through treetops, tired, but overall pleased with how things had worked out.

"You're pullin' our leg!" Rory complained.

Ellie giggled. "Am I?"

"No one can fly," Indy grumbled. "Not really."

"Suit yourselves," she said with a grin and a shrug.

"What will you tell your employer?" he asked McKenna.

"The truth. That what he was looking for is not what he thinks it is, that it's useless to anybody but a dead man."

"Hey, that's my father you're talking about."

"I meant no disrespect," he said, removing his hat again.

"They probably won't believe you," Indy told him. "I should make you a copy."

"Really?"

"I don't see why not."

"Well aren't you the kind one!"

"Now and then," the archaeologist grunted. "Are you too tired to drive to the airport, Ellie?"

"Which one?" she asked.

"Our friend here has to resume his life. He has a camper to pick up and a son to visit. What's his name, Rory?"

"Ah. His name would be Geoffery."

"Don't be gone too long from him, Rory."

"No, sir, I shan't."

Indy asked, "Will your boss want the rest of his money?"

"If I can present him with copies of what he wanted, then I'm certain he'll pay me…even if they are worthless."

"Not to me," Jones said, smiling to himself. "He'll pay you to take him to the airport," he told Ellie, grinning at the squeak of protest he heard issue from the back seat. He had left his hat in the car while they'd been in the strange facility. He picked it up and slouched in the seat, covering his face with it so he could catch a few winks. He wondered if he'd dream about the past few hours now that the situation was resolved. If Neville was right, then odds were he would not. Miss Welsh and Mr. McKenna struck up a bit of polite conversation that drifted in and out of clarity as he slowly succumbed to unconsciousness. He ought to have reminded McKenna not to bother him again. Told him if he needed something from him, to ask instead of stealing. He thought about the Book of Revelation and what some of the references in it might mean to him. And then, just before he crossed over to that peculiar land of strange metaphor, he smiled again, recalling his father's cryptic last words to him…

"_I know where I'm going." _


End file.
